The Original Sin
by Le Requiem
Summary: Instead, he closes his yearning fingers into fists and crosses his arms tightly in front of him like a straight jacket to keep him self from doing anything stupid. Or crazy...because humankind has a way of repeating itself — SasuSaku


**disclaimer**_standard disclaimer  
><strong>note1_<strong>So me and Bruhaeven (a.k.a. my metaphorically-conjoined twin in RAEL LIFE) and I decided to do this thing over the summer where we'd give each other prompts once a week for fun/practice/shits and giggles/etcetera etcetera. Prompts must be written within the week so expect LOTS of updates this coming summer. whooo!  
><strong>note2_<strong>if you want to read some damn fine final fantasy vii stories go check out her account (by her I mean Bruhaeven). Really, I don't even PLAY ffvii and her stories made me fall in LOVE with the final fantasy cast, especially yuffie. Plus, she's amazing at fluff.  
><strong><br>**.

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><strong>prompt_<strong> "An Apple a Day..."

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><p><strong>The Original Sin<strong>

_"Because you have done this,_  
><em>cursed are you among all animals and among all wild creatures;<em>  
><em>upon your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat<em>  
><em>all the days of your life"<br>_**— **Genesis 3:14

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It's not funny or strange, just ironic. Snakes are _his_ motif—his modus operandi. He is the one with the black Ophidian stare. The one who has done cold-blooded things. The one that is forever coiled around him self, hissing and striking out at anyone who dares comes too close.

And she is that woman in heaven's garden. With her pale skin, pink hair, and spring green eyes, eyes that are wide with trust, love, and devotion.

She is too naive.

He is the metaphorical serpent in the tree while she is as usual, blind and susceptible with faith. But this is no Eden. This is the twisted world called Reality, so it is she who has the red fruit in her hands, lifting it to his lips, and unwittingly bidding him to taste.

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Her shoulder brushes against his as she leans back against the wooden railing of the red bridge. And she comments: It's a nice day. And so it is. It is just him and her, the open blue sky, and the clear water running beneath their feet as they wait for the other two.

Her words hang in the air between them, slowly fading away into the silence until it's like she had never spoken. But his lack of response doesn't weigh heavily on her like it use to. Eventually she returns to her own light-hearted business of smiling, watching a sudden petal storm rain down from the cherry tree nearby.

They stand in a companionable quiet. When he thinks it's safe, he chances a quick glance in her direction. Her head is tilting up and she is watching a flurry of cherry blossoms gust above them, and he thinks she has the content smile of someone who has the entire world in the palm of her hand.

A few petals sprinkle onto the top of her head and the teeny, tiny star-like flowers are so similar to the shade of her blush-pink hair that it's ridiculous. So ridiculous, in fact, that he wants to just reach over and brush off the confetti of blossoms.

But he doesn't. Because four years is not long enough. Even though she is tells him she forgives him, he can not forgive himself. The last time his hands had touched her was when one was gripping her throat, and the other was crackling with blue lightening, prepared to pierce her flesh and ribcage and make that beating red organ explode in her chest.

Instead, he closes his yearning fingers into fists and crosses his arms tightly in front of him like a straight jacket to keep him self from doing anything stupid.

Or crazy.

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It's a busy weekend in the shopping district but they still somehow manage to run into each other on the streets. He inwardly denies that he was keeping an eye out for her and she greets him cheerfully over the two huge paper-bags she has wrapped in each arm.

Groceries, she explains.

He just nods; he is too distracted by the draft of wind blowing her scent into his face.

Oddly, she doesn't smell like strawberries or a sugary dessert or anything floral. She smells crisp and clean. She smells like home.

Well, anyways I have to go, she apologizes and before he can re-gear his thoughts to the present, she is bidding him goodbye and walking past him. Without thinking, he reaches out and grabs her by the shoulder and he wants to crush her to his chest, bury his face into her pink hair, and fill his lungs with that smell that reminds him of afternoons he spent outside watching his mother hang out white cotton sheets to dry in the breeze.

Sasuke-kun? She asks and her confused tone reminds him everything he's not supposed to do.

Is something wrong? She presses and he pulls away, letting go of her arm.

"Nothing."

Everything.

But before she can see the truth on his face he turns around and walks away.

He spends the rest of the day alone, sitting on rooftops, feet dangling above laundry strung up between the buildings. The smell of detergent is strong in wind.

For some reason, it only leaves him feeling hollow.

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They were all sitting around a low table at a local bar and she is drunk.

But she is not loud or honest or brassy. Nor does she overstep her boundaries, making slurred love confessions or bitter speeches about broken hearts.

Instead, in the midst of all the drunken laughter and raised voices, she quietly slips off into an inebriated stupor. She is face down on top of the table, forehead pillowed on folded arms.

He waits for someone to realize that she has probably passed out, but everyone is too invested in Naruto and Ino and their drinking contest to notice.

Eventually he makes his way to her side. He shakes her shoulder and calls her name, trying to wake her but she is dead to the world. After checking her vitals to ascertain that yes, she is still alive, he pulls her back against his forearm, hooks his other arm under the back of her knees, and stands haltingly. Suddenly Everyone notices.

Kiba makes a snide remark and he makes sure to accidentally kick the Inuzuka boy in the ribs on his way out.

They step outside and the nighttime sky wheels overhead, loaded with stars, planets, and a pale strip of the galaxy. A low mumble slips out from between her lips and she stirs. He looks down at her.

"Sakura?"

She is still again.

Without any reason—he doesn't need one anyways, there's no one around—he brings his head down near hers.

He is so close that he can smell the alcohol, see her pink-lashes dusting the edges of her eyelids, and can tell she's breathing through her mouth because he can feel it: her breath hot and tender as it tickles the skin of his own lips.

Her head is cradled against his chest. Vaguely, he wonders if his thumping heart will wake her because it sounds loud and booming and nervous to his own ears.

Without realizing, he bows his head even closer. The space between the reds of their mouth is so small it's criminal to even call it space in the first place—an aperture, then. And something is strange because his head is throbbing and the world around him seems to have fallen away and he is about to close the distance between their lips—and she exhales. The spell is shattered into tiny, little, irreconcilable pieces.

Coal black eyes regain their flat, empty gaze.

Slowly, he lifts his head away, never realizing before how heavy it was.

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It's One Morning again and they are waiting together on the bridge.

It's just him and her, the sky and the water running beneath their feet as they wait for the other two and everything's the same.

But things have changed, too.

Because the air has an edge of winter to it, the water below them much colder, and the branches of the cherry tree are bare and naked against the deep, blue autumn sky.

It's a nice day, she says as always, and this time he looks down at her and answers with a nod of his head. She smiles and her arm presses against his as she leans into him. He lets her, because he's breathing in her laundry-soap scent as payment.

Oh right, I almost forgot! She exclaims and her hand disappears into her bag, rummaging, rummaging, rummaging until it reappears with a red fruit in its grasp.

My dad went down to the orchard yesterday and bro**u**ght back some apples. He said to give some to you guys. They're really good, she explains cheerfully and offers it up to him.

He's sick of apples and red fruits and all the things they stand for. So he tells her:

"I don't like apples." Not in a mean way, just in a truthful way.

Come on, she urges with a teasing smile and lifts the fruit so it's hovering between his lips. Don't you know the saying? An apple a day keeps—

He grabs her wrist—the hand that's holding the fruit—and pulls it firmly away from his face. In the same motion, he puts his other hand to the small of her back and yanks her against him.

He inclines his head towards her, she blushes furiously, and a smirk kicks up the corner of his mouth.

Sasuke-kun! What are you—

"Eating the apple," he tells her and he doesn't even waste time on thins like explanations or apertures, and brings his mouth down against hers.

Because he has realized that this is not sin, but temptation all the same. And he is in fact, no cold-blooded, snake, only human, and it is well known that man can not resist the forbidden fruit when it is proffered to him in the hands of the woman he loves.

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><p><strong>author's note_<strong>

1. It's funny because the first two pages of this story started off as a scene where Sasuke is driving Naruto and Sakura to school in his black Mercedes. Yeah. Idk what happened.

2. I kind of closed my eyes and took a leap of faith with this one (NO pun intended. okay, maybe a teeny bit, hee) so it'd be great to know what you think :)


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